The Call That Changed Everything [POV: Nate]
Hannah’s words still echoed in my mind long after she had said them.
“You should take your own advice. If you really like her, call her. Don’t stop until you hear her voice and get a closure.”
I had brushed it off at the time, letting out some half-hearted chuckle, pretending that her words didn’t sink in deeper than I wanted to admit. But now, as I sat in my office, staring at my phone, those words pressed down on me like a weight I couldn’t shake.
Abigail had been gone for more than a month now. I had tried calling her more times than I could count, and each time, it had gone straight to voicemail. No response. No explanation. Nothing. I told myself to stop, to move on, to stop holding onto something that clearly wasn’t meant for me.
But Hannah had called me out, and maybe she was right. Maybe I was just as stuck as she had been in that hospital bed, waiting for something to change when I wasn’t willing to do anything about it.
So, against my better judgment, I picked up my phone and dialed her number. I wasn’t expecting her to answer. I had prepared myself for the silence, for the call to go straight to voicemail like it always did.
But then, it rang.
And this time—she picked up.
“Aby?” My voice came out sharper than I intended, a mix of disbelief and something else—something I hadn’t felt in weeks. Hope.
There was a beat of hesitation, just a moment where neither of us spoke. Then, her voice came through the line, soft and distant.
“Hi, Nate.”
Relief hit me so hard I had to close my eyes for a second, grounding myself. “Jesus, Aby. Where the hell are you? Are you okay?”
“I’m fine,” she said, but the way she said it told me she wasn’t.
It wasn’t a lie, exactly, but it wasn’t the truth either. It was the kind of answer you gave when you didn’t want to explain yourself. The kind of answer that was supposed to keep people from asking more questions.
But I couldn’t do that.
“Aby, are you coming back?” I leaned forward, gripping the edge of my desk as if that could somehow steady the uneasy feeling settling in my chest.
There was another pause, longer this time. I could hear the faint sound of something in the background—maybe waves, maybe wind—but it didn’t matter.
“Yeah,” she finally said. “I’ll come back to the hospital soon.”
That should
Something was off.
“I’ll wait for you,” I said, hoping—praying
The line stayed quiet, and for a moment, I thought she might hang up.
Then she spoke again, and it was so quiet, so fragile, that I almost didn’t catch it.
“Nate, I’m so sorry… you shouldn’t wait for me.”
The words hit me harder than I expected, knocking the breath right out of my chest.
“What?” I asked, because surely, I had misheard her. Surely, she hadn’t just said what I thought she did.
“I’m sorry,” she repeated, her voice stronger now, more certain. “Goodbye, Nate.”
And then—she was gone.
The silence that followed was deafening. I stared at my phone, still gripping it so tightly my knuckles ached.
There’s my closure. She had made her choice. And it wasn’t me.
I let out a slow breath, dragging a hand down my face, willing the ache in my chest to subside. I had told Hannah to live, to move forward, to let go of the past.
Now, Abigail was doing the same. I should have been happy for her.
Instead, it felt like I was drowning.
I pushed back from my desk, my body moving on autopilot. I needed to do something—anything
Room 1001.
Hannah’s room.
She always had a way of cutting through my bullshit, of calling me out when I needed it. Maybe I needed that now. Maybe I needed someone to tell me I was being an idiot, to tell me I should have fought harder, to tell me what the hell to do next.
But when I pushed open the door, the bed was empty. The monitors were gone. The room was cleaned out, the sheets neatly tucked, the space eerily silent.
Hannah was gone.
I stood there, staring at the empty bed, my brain struggling to catch up.
Two women.
Both gone.
Both slipping through my fingers before I even had a chance to hold on.
I let out a breath, rubbing a hand over my chest, willing the dull ache away.
Maybe this was how it was meant to be. Maybe some people were never meant to be saved. And maybe, just maybe, I needed to stop trying.
